


Joining Together, Falling Apart

by persepolis130



Category: New Mutants, X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Break Up, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mexico, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persepolis130/pseuds/persepolis130
Summary: Another bad lead leaves Rictor and Shatterstar at loose ends in the middle of the Sierra Madres with a difficult decision to be made. Prequel to Learning Curve.





	Joining Together, Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> "Mierda" means "shit" in Spanish, and "Madre mia" means something like "Oh my God," just as "uemeur" means "soul" in the language of the Cadre Alliance. Make what you will of "sarrejt." This is my version of why Ric and Star split up after their X-Force days.

Star kicks the door open with the sound of creaking metal and snapping bolts, swords drawn, but it's mostly for effect. There's no one here. The late afternoon sun glints off his blades, finely-honed and deadly beautiful.

 _Not unlike the man who wields them_ , I think, and dig at a rock with the toe of my boot in annoyance. What a cliché.

"Forget about it, Star," I tell him. "They're long gone. It was a bad lead."

I knew it since we first caught sight of the place, nestled in a dingy little valley in the Sierra Madres. The tin-roofed shack probably held drugs or guns-- or both-- not that long ago. Now it's deserted, the valley floor around it offering up little more than cigarette butts and empty tequila bottles. 

And of course the dust. I wipe it from my eyes and swear under my breath.

A few minutes pass before Star comes back out, swords sheathed, carrying a tin of something with a label too dirty to read. His boots stir the dust as he walks, and it swirls like eddies around his feet. "No evidence inside," he says, and tosses me the can.

 _Rebanadas de Mango in Almibar,_ it reads, after I've wiped it on my pant leg. "Leave it to my family to leave the food behind but drink up all the liquor," I mutter. It occurs to me that I could really use a drink right now.

"What?" Star asks. He's checking the surroundings for any clues-- scanning the rocky outcroppings and copse of dry-looking shrubs in the surrounding hills, hand above his eyes to block the sun. His red-gold hair sways behind him.

I sigh and roll my shoulders, trying to think of what to do next. The road is five miles back, and making it before nightfall over terrain like this doesn't seem likely. Walking it after dark could mean a sprained ankle or worse. On the other hand, I'm not too keen on the idea of spending the night in a smugglers' shack.

"Julio?" Star prompts. "You were saying?" A smudge of dirt mars his forehead.

"Nothing," I answer. "Just talking to myself. Hey, c'mere."

He throws me a perplexed look but does, and I wipe my thumb across his dirtied skin. It's moist and too hot and still as white as the day we set foot in Mexico. Apparently, extra-dimensional freedom-fighters don't sunburn.

"Thank you," he says, and I shrug and don't meet his eyes. It's easier that way to pretend it means nothing.

We sit up on an embankment in the shade of the shrubs where the sun is marginally less blinding, and Star opens the can of mangos. He slices the top clean off with one of his swords, twists the sharp-edged tin in his fingers, and tosses it to the ground below. It clinks off the stones, skittering across the ground until it settles and is enveloped in dust. I slurp a couple chunks of fruit into my mouth, easing them between my lips with dirty fingers, and pass Star the can. 

"We should stop here for a while," he says, nodding for emphasis, and brings the can to his lips.

I try not to watch. I _always_ try not to watch. 

It never works.

I don't remember when it started, exactly. In the showers, maybe. _Everyone_ looked in the showers, if only to size up the competition, so to speak. Or at least, I assume they did. If not, I don't want to know about it. 

"Don't suppose you found any blankets down there, huh? Or nice, soft pillows?" I joke half-heartedly, gesturing toward the rusting metal of the shack and trying to shake off the thought of Star's fiery hair thrown over one shoulder as he works the shampoo out of it. When he has it out of the ponytail, it's long enough to reach his waist, and the lather slides down the ripples of his stomach and over the thick ridge of muscle just above his hip…

"No blankets or pillows, no," he tells me, and hands back the can. "Wait. Was that humor?"

I take a sip of the too-sweet juice. He caught me looking once, back then. I was so embarrassed, I didn't dare let my eyes wander his way for a month, even when we were dressed. But when I finally did, it was Star who was looking at _me_.

"Julio?" he says, and I blink at him, realizing he asked me something.

"Sorry," I tell him, because I can't remember what it was. "I wish we could just get this whole search over with. It's so damn frustrating."

"I am frustrated as well," he agrees. "We have not seen nearly enough battle. Every fiber of my being yearns for action."

I snort and toss the empty can toward the shack. It clangs off the roof and bounces out of sight. "Yeah, I bet." 

I wonder if it's something he's heard on TV-- _Every fiber of my being yearns for action_ \-- but probably not. That's just Star being Star. Sure, his television watching borders on obsessive-compulsive, and I couldn't count the number of times I woke up on the couch beside him with a crick in my neck and drool on the armrest. But that's something different. 

When we'd be flopped across the cushions watching whatever ridiculous old movie, game show, or infomercial was currently holding him rapt, Star didn't mind if I touched him. Not, you know, _touching_ touching. It wasn't like _that_. But with the others, he'd edge himself toward the side of the couch to keep away. Never with me.

But I did touch him once. 

He was asleep. We were sharing a bed because shit like that happens on missions, and you get used to it or sleep on the floor. Our room was dark, with only the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of machinery as a reminder of where we were. I reached out to pull the sheet up over us, and my hand skimmed across his collarbone. The touch was gentle and fleeting and barely enough to register the warmth of his skin. It might've been an accident. 

It wasn't. I just couldn't help myself. I rolled away and faced the wall. When his own fingers mirrored the motion across my shoulder blade, I pretended I hadn't felt it. 

"Julio, are you alright?" Star asks, and I swear under my breath. Dios, why am I thinking about this again? 

"Just tired," I answer. It's half true-- I'm exhausted-- and half the biggest lie I ever told. "Maybe I'll… I should take a nap. Just a quick one. Are you tired?"

"No," he says, "but I will rest." "Resting" for Star is anything that involves him being stationary for more than two minutes at a time. If he's feeling really crazy, he might even lower his eyelids.

"Sounds good to me, amigo," I tell him. 

The ground is hard and rocky and filthy and impossible to get comfortable against. The branches above with their parched leaves provide just enough shade to offer the illusion of coolness, but not enough to follow through with the reality. The place even _smells_ hot. I put an arm behind my head and try to find a position without a root digging into my shoulder or a stone jabbing into my ass cheek.

Star takes off his shirt.

I have no idea what part of resting involves getting naked. I wonder if I even _want_ to know. Star's brain works in weird ways. He twists up the shirt and ties the ends together. The mottled sunlight plays across the skin of his abdomen and the broad stretch of his chest, and my breath catches.

I shouldn't react like this. It's not like I haven't seen him before. What's wrong with me?

"Julio?" Star says, and holds out the shirt, looking pleased with himself. "Pillow."

"You didn't have to do that," I mumble, but take the thing anyway, shove it under my head, and close my eyes. I'm never going to get that nap now. The fabric smells like him.

I nearly jump out of my skin when he slides down into the dirt beside me. His naked shoulder brushes mine. "What are you doing?" I demand.

He blinks at me. "Resting. Did I not say? Are you sure you're alright? You seem… distracted. I understand that humans can become physically strained under harsh environmental conditions. Perhaps you require medical--"

"You're covered in dust," I tell him. Because honestly, what am I supposed to say? It's stuck in the sheen of sweat on his skin-- a tan film clinging to his shoulder, the side of his arm, his neck…

I don't mean to brush it off. My hand just moves. It's a reflex, like dropping a hot plate, or blinking when a light shines in your eyes. And I don't think of what it feels like, how the grit rubs beneath my fingers, or how smooth the skin is underneath, or even how long I've been aching to do this. I _don't_. 

But I don't stop touching him, either. Up his arm, across his shoulder, along the ridge of his collarbone to the hollow at the base of his neck. It's soft there, vulnerable when the rest of him is anything but.

His fingertips press against my waist, and my heart skips a beat. I can't do this. It's not right. He's my _friend_ , and he's a _guy_ , and my hand should _not_ be wrapping around the back of his neck, my fingers working into his hair--

"Julio," he whispers. His expression behind the eight-pointed brand is serious as a heart attack, like he's going into battle with blades drawn. The fabric at my waist slides up beneath his fingers, and his knuckles brush bare skin. 

"Dios," I murmur. This is insanity. We have to stop.

A breath later and he's above me, and I'm raising my arms so he can pull my shirt over my head. His knees slide around my hips, and it's all I can do not to tug his belt free. 

This is wrong, all wrong, and I want it to stop. If we do this, there's no going back. 

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull his lips to mine. His mouth is sweet from the mangos. His lips are chapped, and his teeth are sharp when I slip my tongue inside. The noise he makes has me arching up toward him, bare skin against bare skin, nothing but sweat and dust between. I shiver at the feel of it, my fingers tugging at the band in his hair. It comes free, tumbling soft waves down his back. 

My fingers twist into it, tugging his chin up so I can suck on his lip. He gasps and shifts against me, thighs sliding down around mine, and I wish I could tell if the hardness against my hip was body armor or something more. 

"Sarrejt," Star murmurs against my lips. I don't know the word and almost ask what it means, but then his mouth moves on to my neck, and speech isn't an option. His lips burn a path down, down, across my already heated skin, and my mind reels. I hiss and grind my hips against him, because body armor or no, it feels effing incredible. My fingers fist at his hair.

Star's fingers grasp my belt buckle.

"What do I do next?" he murmurs against my chest.

"Keep going," I breathe. "Don't stop."

He shakes his head, and the brush of his hair against my skin sends shivers through me. "No, you misunderstand. I don't know what to do. On television, the camera always pans away before…"

I groan and run a hand over my eyes, wishing I had a hole to crawl into. "Ay, Madre de--" My arm pushes him aside. 

"Please tell me, Julio," he pleads, but I'm already up and grabbing my shirt and pulling it on. I throw him his own. He catches it without thought.

"We have to go," I tell him, brushing off my pants and tucking my shirt in. "Resting here was a bad idea. If we don't make it out to the road by--"

"I have done something wrong," Star says, and his eyes are wide and innocent. He raises his hands in silent appeal. "Please, I don't know…"

I shake my head, feeling every bit like the idiot I am. It's my fault. I know better than this. "Look, it's nothing. I just want to get out of here, okay? Come on."

But he's still sitting in the dirt frowning and worrying at the edges of his shirt. He hasn't untied it. "You're upset with me. I am sorry. I don't understand these customs. If you would only explain, Julio, I swear I will do better."

"You didn't do anything wrong," I promise him. "I just… I shouldn't have let you take it that far, that's all."

"But I _wanted_ ," he insists, rising to his feet with inhuman grace, "to take it that far."

I suppress a groan because this is exactly what I didn't want happening between us. Everything about how humans interact is foreign and confusing for Star, and things like this baffle the hell out of him. Not to mention what they do to _me_. 

"You don't know what you want," I tell him. "You were bred to fight and kill to entertain the masses, not to… not for this. Now let's go before it gets dark. If we hurry, we can--"

"I _do_ know what I want. I am not a child, Julio." The way he says it makes him sound like a petulant six year old. He still hasn't put his shirt back on and doesn't look likely to move anytime soon. It's times like these I wish I could throw him down and beat some sense into him.

And then lick every well-muscled inch of his body. 

Damn it.

"Look, if we do this, things get… complicated," I warn. 

"Since when have things not been complicated?" he asks.

It's a valid question. Sometimes it seems like my life is just one massive clusterfuck after another, so why should this be different? Why shouldn't my best friend get tangled up in it too, just like he got swept into my half-baked plan to drive my family out of the gun-running business?

Star's hand is grasping my elbow. I look up into his eyes and find them wide and hopeful, brilliant blue like a summer sky. His hair falls over one shoulder, not a strand out of place, like he's spent the afternoon sipping cocktails and posing for photographs instead of trekking through the blistering desert heat. Even the dust looks amazing on him.

"This is a bad idea," I murmur, but I know I've lost the fight. I've never been able to deny him anything, and it's sure not going to start with turning down sex.

Mierda, we're going to have sex, aren't we?

I can't do this. I'm not ready. _He's_ not ready. Nobody is ready, and this can't happen.

Star guides me back under the leafy cover and tugs at my shirt. My head is swimming, and I can't help thinking, _but he still doesn't know what to do yet_. I pull his hands away.

"Only tell me, and I'll do it however you like," he swears. "I _want_ to." He grasps my hand and rubs a thumb over my knuckles.

My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the desert air. How did I let things go this far? "Sit down," I tell him, and squeeze his fingers. "I'll show you. Just… just sit down."

He gives me that confused look again, like he wishes he understood human beings the way he does swordplay, or futuristic machinery, or-- 

"Julio?" he says. "If you don't let go of my hand, I cannot sit."

My face goes crimson. "Oh."

He lowers himself down then, frowning and looking at his palm like it's some alien creature now that I've let it go. His eyes turn up to me. "Are you nervous? You're shaking."

"Am _not_ ," I shoot back, only proving I can act like a six year old, too. Come on, pull it together, Ric. You've gotten yourself out of tighter situations than this. Just explain things, and you can stop this. Explain to him that-- that what? That he's the reason I didn't want Cable poking around in my mind? That sometimes I dream in Cadre? That when he's not with me, I feel… what? 

"I liked kissing you," he tells me, and the world snaps back into focus. There he is, spread out on the ground for me, bare-chested and gorgeous, and ready to… 

I don't think about it. I can't. 

I just do it.

It's easier this way, with my body over his and my knees biting into the gravel. I can run one hand up the rippled plane of his stomach and tug his pants open with the other. Push him back against the ground. Press my lips against his hipbone, or run my tongue across that spot just below his navel-- right _there_ \-- that makes him gasp. The control is mine, and if I need this to stop, I can end it just like that. I'm choosing to do this, and that's what makes it different. 

I don't _have_ to. It's my _choice_.

"Julio," Star murmurs as my mouth dips lower. My wrist brushes the fabric of his pants, and that's definitely _not_ body armor. Must be too hot for it this far south. That turns me on for a reason I can't explain, and I tug at the band of his underwear with my teeth. "Julio, please…"

Star's strong hands are on my shoulders, fingers kneading into the muscle. He wants it bad, but needing a bit of action-- that's normal. I'm his friend, and he's had a damn long dry spell, and everybody's got to start someplace, right? When he realizes later that guys aren't his thing, and it was just sex he was after, it'll be fine. He'll get over it. 

We _both_ will.

Easing my fingers beneath his underwear, I draw them down over his hips.

I've seen him hard before-- X-Force's close quarters and testosterone levels pretty much guaranteed everyone a glimpse of everyone else-- but just in passing. Not like this. Not so into it that his dick's pulling up toward his stomach, with a bead of moisture at the tip that makes my mouth water. I lick my lips and swallow hard, going dizzy at the sight. 

"I know what this is," Star breathes. "Tabitha mentioned it. She called it a--"

"Don't talk about Tab now, okay?" I tell him, feeling a pang of guilt. If she knew what we were doing right now… if _any_ of them knew…

"Ah!" Star gasps as I press my lips to the tip. It's salty and a little bitter, and not something I should like this much. I part my lips and slide them down around it.

Maybe I should've laid some ground rules, like how he's not supposed to grab the back of my head and push when I go down on him. That's like, basic _manners_ or something. But even gagging around him, I'm so turned on it hurts. Dios, I've got another man's _dick_ shoved down my throat, and it's making me hard as hell. 

When Star loosens his hold, I can finally move like I want to-- up and down his length, with one hand around the base and the other on his hip to hold him steady. There's a rhythm to it that's easier than I though it would be, almost like it's natural. I ache to get out of my pants, and the heat of the afternoon sun has sweat running into my eyes. I wipe my forehead against my shirt sleeve and give a hint of teeth. 

Beneath me, Star takes a shaky breath. His muscles tense and release with the slide of my tongue. "Julio," he murmurs, and strokes trembling fingers through my hair.

I can't take it anymore. I _can't_ , and getting my belt undone with one hand is damn impossible. I groan and tug at it and fear for a second I'm going to have to put this whole thing on hold so I can find some fucking _relief_. But Star gets it, knows what I need, and his hands are as deft with the worn leather as they are in battle. 

God knows what kind of sound I make when I manage to ease my hand into my pants. Star likes it. He's jerking his hips and whispering a long string of Cadre deep and low in his throat. He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and starts over again. I don't understand half of what he says, and I'm guessing it's gibberish. But that just gets me even hotter. 

I never imagined anything like this-- me with one hand down my jeans bringing myself off, and Star's dick hot and thick in my mouth and feeling like heaven, and… Dios, I'm not going to last at this. Neither is Star. It's too much. His body shudders beneath mine. 

"Julio-- Rictor!" he gasps, back arching and muscled thighs gripping my sides, face desperate. "I cannot--"

When he comes, it's with a gasp and a thrust of his hips, his head thrown back and hair twisting against the ground. My heart pounding in my chest, I thrust frantically into my fist and watch him ride it out, taking my breath away. The taste of him fills my mouth, and I swallow it down.

This is the most incredible thing I've ever done in my life.

My own orgasm hits me like a blinding light, and my whole world trembles-- even the ground beneath us. Mind-blowing, earth-shaking, soul-shattering: it's everything.

The world twists in psychedelic swirls around me, and I stumble to my feet, muscles limp. I catch myself against a gnarled tree trunk, blinking my vision back into focus. Star lies back against the gravel looking as dazed as I feel. His zipper is still undone. I wipe my hands on my pant legs.

"Madre mia," I murmur. My jaw is stiff.

Star raps his knuckles against the toe of my boot and smiles. He looks relaxed and soft and happy-- all the things he never is for anyone else. "Sarrejt," he says, then presses his hand over his heart. "Uemeur sarrejt."

And then reality sets in.

"This didn't happen," I say.

Sitting up, Star raises an eyebrow as he does up his pants. "I seem to remember differently."

I shake my head, doing my best not to panic. Dios, I've got come all over my _pants_! "No, I-- it _happened_ , yeah. But we don't _talk_ about it. We act like it didn't happen. Alright?"

"But--"

"Just listen to me! You've watched enough television to know what 'more than friends' means, right?" He nods, and I nod along with him, trying to dispel the impending hysteria. Madre de Dios, what have I done? "Well sometimes when these things happen, 'more than friends' ends up meaning 'less than friends.' And I don't want us turning out that way. I care about you too much. Okay?"

He considers this for a moment. "If you say so, I believe you, Julio. You would know better than I. But I still think we should talk about… what didn't happen."

I shake my head. "Nothing to talk about. Nothing happened, remember?"

"Even though it never happened," he says, eyes narrowing in appraisal, "can we still keep doing it?"

I want to explain it to him. About him not being… what he thinks he is. He's confused. He must be. He doesn't want sex with me-- I'm just convenient. But how the hell am I supposed to explain something like that to someone who barely understands the basics of human relationships?

"Look, this isn't going to work out," I tell him.

He blinks. "Are we talking about it now? In that case, although there were a few hitches, I feel that for a dry run, it wasn't bad. I'm sure that with daily practice sessions, we could--"

"That's not what I mean!" I interrupt, my mind boggling at _daily practice sessions_. "What I mean is…"

When I first became a mutant, after the Right kidnapped me and put me through a thousand kinds of hell, I used to pray that God would make me normal. If He'd just take this thing, this mutant gene, away, I'd do anything. Please just make it stop.

Then I met other people like me, people who understood and cared. People who knew the difference between right and wrong, who'd fight for me, and who I'd fight with. I learned a lot, made friends, and even had a girlfriend.

I stopped praying.

But it didn't last long. Even around people so strange they couldn't set foot in public, I was something different. A freak among freaks. No one knew, and no one understood, and I could barely look at myself in the mirror. And then I prayed again: 

_Please, God, make me straight_.

"…I don't mean the," I swallow, "the thing that didn't happen. I'm talking about you and me in Mexico tracking down my gun-runner cousins. It's taking too long-- we've been led down too many dead-end trails and… I think I'd be better off going it alone."

Star shakes his head and stands, perplexed at the shift in topic. "I don't understand. I've been at your side at every battle. We work well as a team. If you were alone and something happened to you--"

I cut him off. "Star, let's face the facts for a minute, okay? It's not like I don't appreciate you being here, but you're making it ten times harder to operate covertly. A six-foot-three gringo with a tattoo around his eye and long red hair doesn't exactly blend in around here."

Star contemplates this, chewing on his bottom lip. 

"I'm just being practical," I lie. 

"I could cut my hair," he offers.

I sigh. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. We've got to split up."

"No, we _don't_ ," he insists. "There are other tactical methods which could be employed!"

"There _aren't_ ," I tell him. "You know I'm right. And-- and what are you even _doing_ here, anyway? What about this whole prophecy about liberating the Mojoverse? I mean, you're supposed to be saving worlds and… you're letting this stupid trip with me get in the way of that. It's your _destiny_ , Star. Are you giving that up for a few shipments of contraband weapons?"

He frowns, shaking his head. "But you are my _friend_ , Julio."

"I know that. And I'll always _be_ your friend," I reassure. "But this path you're on right now, Star? It's the wrong one. You're better than this."

"But what if I'm not?" he asks. "What if I never get back to my dimension again? What if I fail? What if _this_ ," he spreads his arms wide and then motions toward me, "is my destiny?"

I shake my head. "Don't talk like that. You know it's not."

"But…" He sighs and picks up his shirt from the ground beside him. I'd forgotten all about it. It's covered in dust. In a small voice, he asks, "But what if I _want_ it to be?"

I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. Can a man fight destiny? And if it really is his destiny, can he _want_ to? I never imagined Star questioned it. Maybe he didn't before. Something about that makes me feel unsettled. I wish he hadn't said anything.

I finally tell him, "That's a choice you need to make for yourself, after you've lived a little." When he starts to protest, I add, "On your _own_. Not with a team, not with me, but on your terms, the way you want to live."

"But I don't _know_ how I want to live," he says. He looks lost, and my heart breaks for him.

I reach up to cup his cheek in my palm. His skin is soft and warm, and I never want to stop touching it. He stares into my eyes like he can see right through me.

I let my hand drop. "Well, that's what you need to figure out, then. But neither of us can do what we need to do with you here. You have to leave. And after you give it some thought, if you decide to come back… then we can talk. If you, you know, still want to. But it's gotta be your decision, Star. I'm sorry."

The sun is dipping below the cliff above us, and it casts a shadow across his face. The soft happiness I saw there before is gone, replaced by something cold. I hate seeing it. I wish things could be different. But I'm not stupid, not really. I know what we shared wasn't just sex; it was something more than that. And even if he thinks he is, he's not ready for what that means. And neither am I. 

Will I ever be?

Star turns away from me, gazing across the dusty valley and the dingy little shack with its rusty tin roof and broken liquor bottles. We are the greatest thing that never happened to this place. 

"Yes," he murmurs. "Yes, I will go."

* * * * *

Four days later, I see Star off from Monterey. He clings to the back of an overcrowded bus, hair twisting around him, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. I raise my hand in goodbye and watch for him to do the same. But the dust here is so bad-- it gets in my eyes, and I have to wipe at them because they're watering so much. By the time the air clears, the bus is long gone, and I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life.

I turn away, back to what I came here for, and wonder if God will ever answer my prayer. Part of me is terrified he won't, and I'll stay this way forever no matter how hard I try to be normal. The rest of me is terrified he _will_ , and these feelings I have for Star will go away. How could I _live_ like that? 

My eyes start to water again, and I wipe at them with my sleeve. But there's no dust to blame this time, no bus clunking off into the distance, carrying away the best friend I've ever had. 

The only thing I can blame is myself.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on LiveJournal in 2011.


End file.
